Charity Page 38

  There was a certain relief that John would soon be gone. Each time he’d phoned the office, no matter how businesslike he was, there was still the temptation to try and make more of it. But now, faced with all the frantic work to be done in the next few weeks, she felt able to shut the door firmly for ever.

  Yet as she she looked at his narrow, lined face, those gentle eyes and his endearingly small nose, she still wanted to touch him one last time. She itched to run her fingers through his curls, to trace those deep lines, to smell his skin and hold that hard lean body. But it was more than just a physical need; the emotional bond had to be severed too.

  ‘If you ever really need me, you can get in touch through my agent in London,’ he said, sliding his hand over hers. He didn’t have to say he wasn’t going to write, or visit when he was in London, Charity knew he would be too honourable to do that now he’d committed himself to Nina.

  ‘Just send me a postcard to tell me you are truly happy,’ she whispered, biting back tears. ‘That’s enough for me. I’m a big girl now.’

  John looked at her and remembered how she had been the first day he brought her to this restaurant. She’d been such a waif then, her eyes and mouth too big for that little pale face, her hair straggly, her clothes so shabby. She had given him back his life and, despite the ache in his heart at saying goodbye for good, he knew she had given him the power to be happy with Nina. Through her he had learned to truly love, to give of himself, and now he could look forward to a new phase of his life.

  The money he had spent to launch her business was nothing to him; he felt he owed her far more. All he wished was that he could find the right words now to speed her on her way to fulfil all her ambitions.

  ‘Are you coming home with me?’ she asked as John opened the cab door for her.

  King’s Road was busy despite the late hour, girls in miniskirts, young men in jeans and denim jackets thronging to the Village Gate club. Cars were cruising, windows open and music blaring, and it seemed here that the night was just starting.

  ‘No I want to leave you here, where it all started,’ John said, pulling her to him for one last hug. ‘Remember how I tried to hug you that day?’

  ‘You scared me.’ She smiled at the memory.

  ‘Not enough.’ He held her tightly, his lips on her hair. ‘But you’ll never be scared of anything again, will you?’

  She released herself from his grip and took his face in her hands.

  ‘Such an old face,’ he said, guessing she was photographing it in her mind one last time just as he was hers.

  ‘Such a dear face,’ she said. ‘No man will ever quite measure up to you, John.’

  He took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘Go now angel. Don’t look back.’

  Alone in her bed in the darkness, Charity finally let the tears flow until she was drained. Yet they were healing tears. Now it was finally over she had to build on what he’d given her. She had tasted real love, plumbed the depths and soared with the eagles, and if it never came again, at least she knew what it was.

  The name ‘Grant Meredith’ was like a magic key to open a locked door. Girls were soon beating a path to Charity’s office on the chance of being photographed by the great man. Models between jobs, ‘resting’ actresses, shop assistants and office girls all wanted to put their names down on her books.

  Charity vetted them carefully, dividing them into types. Ultra-glamour girls for jobs such as posing on cars at motor shows. Smart ones capable of real selling and then a huge heap of those more ordinary ones who could be allocated to appropriate slots.

  Grant Meredith, according to the many articles about him, was supposed to be rude, temperamental and overbearing, but Charity found him to be none of these things. He diplomatically took shots of every one of the eighty girls who turned up, but handed cards only to those he thought the most photogenic to come again the next day, on an appointment system for more sensational shots.

  By the afternoon of the last day, when he suggested Charity should pose for him, she liked him enough to be completely at her ease.

  He looked extraordinary, with long greasy hair slicked back, somewhere between a Chicago gangster and a teddy boy. His leather jacket was falling apart, he wore motorcycle boots and she did wonder what he and John had in common.

  ‘We go back a long way,’ he said with a wicked grin as he packed away his cameras. ‘Before you were born, love, in Paris, but he wouldn’t want me to tell you all about that!’

  Charity stared at the proofs in amazement. Even the plainer girls looked fabulous: she would be proud to display these pictures anywhere.

  ‘One of the girls is a real cracker,’ Grant said, pulling out a couple of bigger prints to show her. ‘I’d like to take some more of her, can you arrange for her to ring me?’

  It was Dorothy. Grant had caught that fabulous enigmatic smile, the cool sensuality of her.

  ‘That’s my flatmate.’ Charity’s eyes lit up with pride and excitement. ‘I can give you her number right now.’

  The day she waited for Grant to come with the proofs was to be the last one of inactivity. From the very next day things began to happen. First Jackson Booth, the man John had asked to handle the public relations, rang to say that the Evening News wanted to interview her, and this was quickly followed by a call from the Daily Express, who were intrigued at a businesswoman being so young. Both articles were in print in two days with one of Grant’s group photographs, and from then on the phone began to ring.

  Asking Rita’s help in those first heady days was natural. Rita knew the promotion game as well as Charity did and she had all the secretarial skills.

  ‘I’ll just help out for a couple of weeks,’ Rita suggested. ‘Then maybe you can get someone in part time.’

  It was an uneasy alliance at first. Both Rita and Dorothy were missing the money from escort work and Charity doubted the wisdom of employing her flatmate, even as a temporary measure. But Rita surprised Charity. Once she sat down behind her desk, she really worked, creating an efficient system that Charity could follow.

  The moment the first batch of brochures arrived, Charity started work with new fervour. She demanded an interview, wouldn’t be fobbed off with secretaries or ‘leave a brochure and we’ll see what we can do’. Now she insisted on making an appointment to see the top man or woman and instead of meekly taking their ‘we’ll call you when something comes up’, she made suggestions as to how her agency could enhance their image with direct promotions.

  A soft drink promotion came first, quickly followed by one for tights. They were small companies and the contracts were only for a week each, but it was a breakthrough.

  ‘It’s going to work,’ Charity said one afternoon as she returned from a meeting with the sales manager of a cosmetics company who had suggested a trial two-week job. ‘It really is. Stay with me, Rita, be a partner.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a partner,’ Rita said, with a wide grin which showed that she appreciated the thought. ‘It wouldn’t work long term and I haven’t got any money to put into the business anyway. But if you can pay me the same as I earn at promotions and you increase it as the money comes rolling in, that’s enough for me.’

  The money didn’t come rolling in. Companies weren’t always as quick to pay as they were to arrange a promotion. Sometimes Rita had to go off and take the place of one of the girls when they didn’t turn up, and several times Charity had to arrange an overdraft just to pay the girls’ wages. But slowly and surely the business began to grow.

  An eight-week contract with a new confectionery company kept her best girls in work. A nightclub promotion for Bacardi held the interest of the more glamorous girls and there were other smaller jobs with crisp and biscuits companies that filled in gaps between bigger promotions.

  Rita was happy. She liked working with Charity, her parents approved of her finally settling down in what they called ‘a real job’. The office was only a short walk from the flat and she ha
d escaped the regimentation and boredom of work in big stores.

  Dorothy was as selfish and arrogant as ever. She bemoaned the loss of income as an escort, sniffed at most of the jobs Charity offered her and did as little around the flat as ever. But when the three girls saw the shots Grant had taken of her in his studio, they all knew it wouldn’t be long before she moved on to modelling. She seemed to encapsulate the look of the moment, with her long straight hair, her beautiful eyes and chiselled bone structure.

  In May she got her first job on the cover of a visitors’ guide to London, quickly followed by one for Honey magazine. She found herself an agent who said he’d have her modelling furs in August with Grant taking the pictures, and discussed sending her to New York for a fashion show.

  But if Rita and Dorothy were satisfied with their lot, Charity was still hankering for a prestigious promotion. She knew that until she landed one of the really big names she would always be struggling to pay her girls and the rent.

  Ironically it was one of Carmel’s clients who put her in touch with Marlboro cigarettes. Arnold Fear came to the office one day looking for Carmel and fortunately Charity didn’t freeze him out as she did with most men who turned up at the door. He came in, studied the framed glossy prints of her girls on the wall and began to chat. He did tell Charity he worked for a cigarette company, but she didn’t press him to tell her which one, or his position there. Instead she offered him a cup of tea while she found Carmel’s number and chatted about her agency.

  Two days later Arnold phoned and told her that he had recommended her to Marlboro.

  ‘I just hope you can handle it,’ he said. ‘Mr Grimes, the chap who deals with promotions, is a hard cookie. But he’s willing to see you.’

  Charity had never been so nervous in her entire life as the day of her initial interview with Mr Grimes. He was in fact a director of Style and Design, an advertising agency in Regent Street that handled the Marlboro account, so more than one job might rest on the impression she gave him.

  She went right through her wardrobe, discarding just about everything, and finally plumped for the black suit she’d been wearing when John came back and Dorothy’s best white silk shirt. With three-inch heels, a manicure and her hair set that morning, she felt confident about her appearance, if nothing else. Rita had typed out details of all their other promotions, and along with the glossy brochure she had photographs of the best of her girls tucked into an expensive briefcase borrowed from Rita’s father.

  A severe-looking secretary ushered her into a spacious, plush office and she found Mr Grimes was almost as forbidding as his name.

  He was very tall, which immediately put her at a disadvantage, and had the kind of stern, unsmiling face she expected from a bank manager.

  Charity listened carefully as he laid out his plan for a cigarette promotion at Goodwood races, her heart racing, and immediately she added more money to the fee she’d planned. He wanted girls who were ‘top drawer’ types, well used to the kind of people who went to motor racing.

  ‘As I’m sure you’re aware,’ he said, fixing her with penetrating dark eyes, ‘a company like Marlboro isn’t concerned with selling a few extra packets, but to create an image. Although the girls will be handing out cigarettes, and indeed selling some of our merchandise, the main object is that people link Marlboro with the smart set. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Grimes.’ Charity smiled, clutching her hands together beneath the shelter of his desk. ‘My girls are entirely part of that image – glamorous, sophisticated girls. But let me show you a few of them.’

  She had brought eight pictures with her and she stood up and slowly put them down one by one, until she got to the final one of Dorothy, which she placed closest to him. As she expected, he focused only on Dorothy, barely glancing at the others again.

  ‘I only need four,’ he said. ‘Are all these girls available for the whole of July?’

  ‘Dorothy,’ Charity tapped her picture, ‘is modelling in August, but I’m almost certain I haven’t booked her out yet for July. Jane is free then, Susie and Wendy I shall have to check on. Donna and Jackie have been booked, but if you would like them I can always juggle other girls into their places.’

  Charity took a deep breath. She had learned enough about salesmanship to know she had to close this sale now.

  ‘Which girls would you like?’ she asked.

  He fell for it, just as she hoped he would. ‘This one, Dorothy did you say her name was? And these other three.’

  ‘Dorothy, Donna, Jane and Susie,’ she said, picking up the spare pictures and leaving the ones he’d chosen on the desk. ‘Now shall we talk about dress? What did you have in mind?’

  Charity was so excited once she was back in Regent Street that she flagged a taxi without even thinking of the expense. She couldn’t wait to get back and tell Rita.

  ‘Get out the contract!’ she shouted as she burst through the door. ‘We’d better not celebrate until he signs it tomorrow, but it’s as good as in the bag.’

  Rita bounced out of her chair, quite forgetting the cool businesslike manner she’d struggled to create. She flung her arms round Charity and led her in a mad dance round the office. ‘Who did he pick?’ she finally managed breathlessly.

  ‘Well, Dot of course! Donna, Susie and Jane.’ Charity slumped back down on her chair, eyes shining.

  ‘Did he agree to all the terms you wanted?’ Rita asked.

  ‘I didn’t actually put mine forward. Everything he offered was better.’ Charity giggled. ‘I’ve got more money, the girls get snazzy dresses provided, and put up in a posh hotel. The only thing that’s different is the hours because he wants them present at some evening do’s – not that that’ll be a hardship.’

  ‘They’ll have the time of their lives,’ Rita said enviously, imagining all those dishy racing drivers. ‘I wish we were going!’

  ‘I can’t wait to tell Dottie.’ Charity giggled. ‘She’ll be like a dog with three tails.’

  Rita went back to her desk, and loaded the contract form into her typewriter.

  Charity sat for a moment in thought.

  ‘We could go down there one weekend,’ she said eventually. ‘It might be good for business to show our faces.’

  ‘Never mind business, think of the fun.’ Rita grinned. ‘All those men and powerful cars. We can’t leave them all to Dottie. Besides, you spend too much time being serious.’

  Charity didn’t reply for a moment. Rita was right: since that night with Ted, work had become a substitute for fun. She hardly thought about Hugh any more. She was over John. All the old cliche’s were true, time did heal most wounds. She had learned to put aside what her father had done to her. She no longer blamed herself for her parents’ death. Even Uncle Stephen worried her less – a lawyer-contact, a friend of Dot’s, had recently suggested she might be able to take over the children’s guardianship once she was twenty-one if she could prove her ability to take care of them. Giving up Daniel was the only thing that still hurt. Hardly a day passed without her wondering what he looked like, or what he was doing.

  It was time she started living, really living, not merely marking time or dwelling on the past.

  ‘We will go,’ Charity said, a wide smile spreading across her face. ‘What’s more we’ll have a new racy dress each on the business.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  1966

  Charity couldn’t sleep. It was too hot. The window was wide open, but there wasn’t even the faintest breeze. It had been growing warmer each day throughout July and now in the last week the temperature hadn’t dropped below eighty degrees.

  It hardly seemed possible that last year she and Rita had been celebrating signing the Marlboro contract. Now they only got excited when they were pulling in jobs for over ten girls. The office wasn’t big enough now, they even complained about how shabby the flat was and while Charity and Rita were sweltering in a poky office, working long hours, Dorothy was always jetting
off to exotic locations on fashion shoots.

  The phone rang, making Charity jump. She turned on her light and frowned.

  It was ten past twelve. Only one of Dorothy’s admirers could be phoning this late, and she was out.

  Padding into the lounge in her nightdress, Charity saw Rita through her open door, lying on the top of her bed, fast asleep.

  ‘Earls Court 3245.’

  ‘Is that Charity?’ a girl’s voice asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Charity frowned. There was something familiar about the voice, but she couldn’t place it. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Prue!’

  Charity’s knees gave way in shock.

  ‘My Prue?’ she stammered out, afraid she was mistaken.

  ‘Yes, your sister. I know it’s late, but I couldn’t think of anyone else to phone. Everything’s so awful.’

  Charity didn’t even consider the words ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else’. All she could hear was her sister’s voice rising in a plea for help.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Charity recovered enough to sit down on the settee. ‘You’ve just given me such a shock. I didn’t know you had my number Prue, it’s so wonderful to hear you.’

  ‘Lou gave it to me ages ago,’ Prue said quickly, as if that wasn’t important. ‘Please come down and help me.’

  Charity’s heart lurched. Flashes of everything from road accidents and rape to someone standing over her sister with a gun, were running through her head.

  ‘Calm down and tell me, Prue,’ she said. ‘Now, where are you? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m at home, at Studley.’ Prue started to cry. ‘Grandmother’s ill and Uncle Stephen is being so horrid. I can’t cope.’

  Charity’s mind slipped back six years. She saw herself in her uncle’s room holding that enema pan, remembered how hateful and menacing Stephen had been.

  ‘But Stephen won’t let me near Studley,’ Charity pointed out. ‘What’s actually the matter with Grandmother? Is it bad enough to call an ambulance? Where’s the housekeeper?’